


After the Siege

by FoxRafer



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Back to Middle-Earth Month, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxRafer/pseuds/FoxRafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for B2MeM Challenge O65 on my 'AU: Who Lives and Who Dies?' and 'Art Supplies' Bingo cards. Clearly I'm in a major angst mode; lots of dying in these back to middle-earth fics. One of today's prompts, Gandalf falls in Moria but doesn't come back, inspired more of the same. I haven't been listing the specific prompts, but in this case I thought it would help explain why my mind went here. Here's hoping I can do something cheerier next time.</p>
    </blockquote>





	After the Siege

**Author's Note:**

> Written for B2MeM Challenge O65 on my 'AU: Who Lives and Who Dies?' and 'Art Supplies' Bingo cards. Clearly I'm in a major angst mode; lots of dying in these back to middle-earth fics. One of today's prompts, Gandalf falls in Moria but doesn't come back, inspired more of the same. I haven't been listing the specific prompts, but in this case I thought it would help explain why my mind went here. Here's hoping I can do something cheerier next time.

_Don't tell me where you're taking him._

Éowyn can still hear the determined urgency in Háma's voice, still see the slight hint of panic in his eyes. The less he knew, the safer they would be; she knew that. Yet it contributed to a sense of isolation she fought against every passing day. Feeling her shoulders begin to tense, she pulled out her sword and began to sharpen it, the etched metal still managing to gleam slightly in the dim light. If they were lucky there'd be no need to use it, but the act of honing the blade calmed her nerves, the weight a comfort in her hands. By her estimation they'd been here for four days, only a day since the sounds of battle had dissipated. All that was left was the lingering smell of smoke and an occasional guttural shout that told her all she needed to know about who had been victorious.

If not for her uncle she wouldn't be hiding at all, would have joined her fellow Rohirrim in the fight for their land. But her duty was to protect him, keep him from whatever sickening plan Wormtongue and his master had concocted. It felt cowardly to sit in a hole while Edoras was overrun, while blood was spilt and blackened the once green land. Éowyn felt a small coil of resentment toward her uncle twist her gut but she pushed it back; she did not have the luxury for such errant feelings. She looked at him, stooped and distant, staring blankly at the far wall. He looked so much smaller out of his royal garb, so much more vulnerable. He would have starved had she not stayed with him, she knew that to be true, yet she wondered why she was so determined that he live. An enfeebled man in a world of darkness, only one sword for his defense - surely despite her best efforts he would perish. Why hold onto hope of a better future?

Sheathing her sword, she stood and walked over to the wood and stone door that sealed them in, jogging in place a little to keep her limbs loose and her blood flowing. Behind her there was an identical door that led to an exit just outside the wall. She hadn't thought about this room in years. Théodred had shown it to her, a secret he'd shared only with Éomer and herself. It'd been created by one of Théoden's most trusted advisors, a hidden room to secure the future king if Edoras were ever besieged. Carved within the earth, it was accessible only by a hidden path just beyond a disguised door within the eastern stables. A small shaft near the ceiling brought in light from an abandoned well, the modest shift in brightness the only way Éowyn could tell the passing of time.

When they first arrived she wondered if her uncle had ever told Wormtongue about this place, perhaps in a reverie not of his making. Maybe the vile man knew of its existence but not its location. Whether the enemy lay in wait for them to appear or were oblivious to there location, she would need to leave soon to look for food. Háma had collected some clothes for them, unobtrusive attire to help them slip out of Meduseld unnoticed by treacherous or curious eyes. She'd been pleased that he chose the clothing of a young man for her, more comfortable and affording her greater freedom of movement. But they'd only been able to carry a few days worth of supplies with them, and despite careful rationing it would be close to gone by the end of the week.

The dim light began to fade further into the shadows, and she craned her neck to see the opening above. She wondered if the stables still stood, if they'd managed to free the horses before the gates were stormed. She pictured Meduseld glowing in the sun, the banners whipping in the wind, and shivered at the thought of nothing being left but charred wood and ash. Éowyn moved to kneel in front of her uncle, looked for some sign of recognition in his clouded eyes. She took his hand, the skin cold and brittle to the touch, and felt the full weight of the odds stacked against them. But for him, for the man he once was, she would keep them alive, keep fighting despite nearly succumbing to overwhelming hopelessness. Éomer was still alive; she would know if he were dead. And with him and his men lay a small seed of hope, one she would not stop tending until she drew her last breath.


End file.
